


The Meeting of the Spider and the Tiger

by graphic_winged_observer



Series: The Spiderman is Having Me for Dinner Tonight [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graphic_winged_observer/pseuds/graphic_winged_observer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with a gunshot, an instant attraction in the span of a trigger pull. Jim Moriarty needed him for a job, plain and simple, but when working for the only Consulting Criminal in the world, nothing really stays plain and simple. Sebastian Moran is the best at what he does, killing, and now he works for the best at organizing the crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Meeting of the Spider and the Tiger

**Author's Note:**

> The characters of James Moriarty and Colonel Sebastian Moran created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  
> The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.  
> I do not own these characters, I’m just borrowing them for this idea.
> 
> Heavily inspired by the interactions of the RP Twitters, @HisManSebastian and @_JMoriarty.

The pub was small, dingy, and well off the beaten trail, the perfect arena to perform any seedy or underhanded business and Jim Moriarty hated that he found himself standing outside _this_ building, but out of all his offers this was the only place the sniper agreed to meet him. He had already dirtied his new Westwood coming down to this part of town and was going to smear it further by entering the smoke filled pub.  
  
Jim rolled his eyes at the back alley bar and entered, coughing through the thick haze of smoke. Every head in the bar turned to him, looking clearly out of place in the den of thieves, but he was a much better class of criminal; certainly smarter, than the lot of them combined. Jim cast his dark brown eyes around the pub, his whole body taking considerable time adjusting to the overly smoky atmosphere.  
  
Moriarty walked through the shady fellows sitting around in small, clustered groups, speaking in hushed tones to each other; avoiding bumping into as many as he could, their eyes following him in his expensive suit as he saddled up to the bar; refusing to sit on the filthy stool before him. He leaned cautiously against the carved and graffitied counter and drummed his fingers impatiently on the wood.  
  
“You wan’ som’thin’?” the bartender questioned in an accent that was clearly more at home in the southern United States. Jim cast dangerous, half-smiling eyes at him.  
  
“I’m looking for someone special,” he murmured, almost purred to the bartender; whose eyes turned hard and he tried to keep his mouth from falling open; though Moriarty couldn’t tell if it was by the context of the statement or how he’d said it.  
  
“If yo’re lookin’ fer tha’ kinda lovin’, th’re’s a gay bar two streets dahn.” The bar broke into sporadic laughter but the laugh that exited Moriarty’s mouth silenced the bar and sent a shiver down every spine; save one.  
  
“Oh no. No.” Jim allowed his voice to go singsong at the word, that churned the stomachs of those closest to him. He always enjoyed playing with new toys. “Nothing at all like that. I’m looking for a specialist by the codename of ‘Tiger’, if you please,” Jim cooed, placing his custom model Browning on the counter, barrel pointed square at the gut of the bartender. He barely batted an eyelash when every criminal in the joint pulled their sidearms and pointed them at him.  
  
“Mac,” came a deep, gravel-lined voice from the other end of the bar. Almost every gun settled and every eye turned to the shaggy headed blonde. Smoke was thickest around the man as he puffed from his dying cigarette. He snuffed it and cast grey eyes at Jim; who couldn’t help but smirk at the power and position this man clearly held in the bar.  
  
“I think I’ve found the man I’m looking for, thank you.” Moriarty pocketed his Browning and sauntered to the end of the bar.  
  
“I’ll take my business an’ the bottle upstairs, if tha’s fine by you, Mac.” He grabbed the bottle of whiskey in one hand and lit a fresh cigarette with the other.  
  
“Long as th’ poof leaves out th’ back, Seb. Ah ‘on’t wan’ ‘im h’re ane long’r th’n he hasta.” The tender turned his back just in time to miss the bullet in the head; but then it was aimed as a warning. Everyone jumped at the crack of the gunshot in the confined space of the bar. “Jesus Christ, Moran!” Mac yelled, placing a hand to his blown ear. “Th’ fuck’s yo’r probl’m!?”  
  
“No one,” he growled, a smirk breaking across Moriarty’s face. “I repeat, no one insults my business. Head up the stairs and wait for me,” Sebastian whispered to Jim, keeping his eyes and SIG trained on the shaking bartender; who was cradling his ear that wouldn’t hear well for months to come. Moriarty cast his eyes around, every firearm was trained on the imposing man before him.  
  
“Your respect has gone out the window,” he whisper-sung as he passed Moran on his way to the stairs. Jim glanced around once more, he really hoped he hadn’t traveled all this way just to lose now. Sebastian nodded up the stairs and Jim did so; though it would be the last time he was told what to do.  
  
“You ain’t gonna be welcome h’re anemor’, Moran,” Mac threatened, breaking a smile across Seb’s face.  
  
“I realize tha’, but one last request for old times sake.”  
  
“Wut?”  
  
“The Bombay.” He gestured to the gin bottle behind Mac. “Now,” Moran added after several moments of non-responsiveness. Mac grimaced and begrudgingly handed Sebastian the bottle of dry gin. “Cheers,” he said through his cigarette and carried both bottles by the neck in one hand as he backed up the first few stairs. He kept his SIG trained on Mac; his eyes carefully flitting around the rest of the bar, a lot of angry faces were staring back at him. When he was out of sight of the majority of the patrons he turned to walk up the rest of the stairs. This certainly wasn’t be the first time he’d been kicked out of an old haunt because of work.  
  
Sebastian trotted up the rest of the stairs quickly, holstering his gun in the waistband of his jeans. He opened the door to the one room flat and was met with the back of a hand. The action surprised him and caused one of the bottles to slip through his fingers, from the smell it was the Johnny Walker; blue label too, damn.  
  
“You never tell me what to do, understand?” Moriarty hissed. Moran had yet to turn back from the smack, but cast his grey eyes down at the man he had nearly a foot of height on. Jim could barely read the weathered face that stared at him and he loathed it, he was used to being able to read people in a second, but the sniper before him was an enigma.  
  
Sebastian cracked a half-smile, taking the crooked cigarette from his lips and saying, “Sure, Boss.” He didn’t care for the hit; and would have otherwise retaliated by now, but he was never one to turn away business until he knew what he was being hired for; not that he turned down jobs, he turned down people. “Here.” Seb held out the bottle of Bombay to Jim, who looked at it questioningly.  
  
“It’s not even open, so it ain’t poisoned,” Sebastian commented, prompting Jim to take the bottle from him.  
  
“Gin?” Moriarty inquired, turning the sleek bottle over in his hands.  
  
“I couldn’ give yah the whiskey even if I wan’ed tah. An’ no offense, but yah don’ exactly look like a dark liquor man, not in tha’ suit anyhow,” he said, pointing between the shattered bottle on the floor and Moriarty.  
  
“Bombay is good,” Jim muttered in hindsight, his attention split between the sniper and the commotion from downstairs. “Are they preparing to storm the castle?” he inquired, only marginally interested in the answer.  
  
Sebastian listened carefully, the amount of noise coming from downstairs was on the verge of alarming. “I ‘unno,” he shrugged, lifting the Barrett M82 from the coffee table and leaning it against the nearest open window. He placed another cigarette between his lips and turned back to Moriarty, choosing not to light it just yet.  
  
The room was significantly less smoky than the bar and the lighting was bright enough; even in the dying light of day, that Jim could finally make out the features of the sniper. Sebastian Moran easily stood six three and weighed about two hundred pounds, mostly muscle by the looks of him. His hair wasn’t as shaggy as Jim originally thought; but the blondeness of it certainly came from a bottle, though it was longer on top and shorter on the sides and back, a younger man’s look that Jim could hardly suppress a grin at. His eyes were a dark, slate kind of grey and had certainly seen a lot, Sebastian’s weathered face told that tale enough. There was scarring there; one crossing over his right eye and another along his jaw, traveling down his neck some, and it looked as if his nose had been broken twice.  
  
The silence between them stretched long as Jim surveyed the man before him, trying to take in every detail he could. It was something Sebastian was used to, though most people simply asked about his job; his life, rather than trying to look him over for it. Dogtags hung about his neck, the only stark reminder that he was once a Colonel in the army. This brought the hint of a tribal tattoo on his back to Jim’s attention, it was hidden beneath his shirt and was only just visible much like the scarring on his chest. His hands were as worn as his face, blistered and scarred. A few of his knuckles were out of place, indicating he’d broken them at least once.  
  
“Well?” Sebastian said when the silence stretched too long for him to handle. If that was one thing he disliked, it was prolonged silence during a meeting, it made things awkward and that’s never a good way to start out a business proposition.  
  
“Versed in all types of combat, are you?” Jim inquired, he hated being interrupted.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Your specialty is…?”  
  
Sebastian smiled through the cigarette and lifted the Barrett level with the window frame, taking a seat on the coffee table at his back. He spied through the sight a moment before waving Jim over.  
  
“What _are_ you doing?” he asked, the annoyance clear through his Irish accent.  
  
“When people come lookin’ to hire a high class sniper, they usually like to know tha’ the shot can be made.” Moran held out an extra sight to Jim, though he didn’t _tell_ him to take it. Moriarty took the sight offered to him, easily hiding the grin that threatened to pull at his lips; ( _fast learner this one_ ).  
  
“You’re lookin’ for the spark,” Seb murmured against the rifle. He shifted the unlit cigarette in his mouth and took aim, taking several deep breaths before holding it; calculating what was about to happen. There was a decent headwind and the target was just over a mile away; and it kept moving.  
  
“What is that?” Jim inquired, the sight to his eye. “Is….”  
  
“Shh,” Moran whispered and Jim obeyed; this was one order he was going to let slide. The wind died down and the little spark was on the move again as Moran squeezed the trigger. Jim jumped at the sound of the fifty caliber round leaving the weapon, the whole neighborhood must have heard it, but he ignored that notion a moment and placed the sight back to his eyes in time to watch the spark get snuffed out.  
  
“Did you just use a fifty caliber round to put out a cigarette?” James asked, unable to keep the awe from his voice.  
  
“Yeah,” Sebastian grinned, standing swiftly from the table and placing the Barrett back in its case, dismantling the barrel in short order. “You mind placing that chair under the door handle, please,” he added, hoping it seemed more like a favor that an order. Jim handed the extra sight back and rammed the chair into the door, able to hear a mass of noise from the other side.  
  
“They’re storming now.” He turned on the spot to see Moran packing up everything. “You _live_ here?” Jim asked sharply, suddenly noticing the room around them.  
  
“They are an’ I did. We c’n go out the back.” Sebastian nodded his head to the door and hulked the strap of the Barrett’s case across his body and picked up a box in one arm, holding it to his shoulder. He slipped the SIG from his back and made to bow at Moriarty. “Shall we depart before they manage to break down the door?”  
  
Jim couldn’t hide the grin from his face this time. He liked this man.


End file.
